This nigga here? He’ll screw anything that aint nailed down. When he smile @ you, if you’re male, all that means is he done spotted your sister/momma/grandmaw/whomever, and all he’s missing is a condom.

Wet, dry, eight to eighty, blind, cripple, or crazy, it’s all good to him.

But, he can make that guitar hop, and that’s why Rev. keeps him on. Even after Rev. caught him in the Sunday School room with Miz Rev doing the double-butt shuffle, Rev said, “Now, by rights, I should’a shot both of ‘em, but the boy play that gee-taw so damn good, I let ‘em slide.” Which is pretty much what Jody was doin’ with Miz Rev….

I’ll tell you more about the Pastor’s wife later, ‘cause that’s a whole ‘nother story…aw, hold on a minute…

Hell! Here come Sister Brown, steppin’ up to the mike. She gonna ask Rev. if she can “sing her song,” and he gonna be nice and tell her “okay”.

Whaddya mean, “be nice?”

Just wait….

You’re gonna see…….there!

Now you understand! That’s right, the heifer can’t sing.

Lawd a’mercy, she sound like a bulldog fartin’ in a jug! Every Third Sunday of the month, she climb up on that platform, and grab that mike like she Aretha Franklin, gonna tear the church up!……..and don’t do schit.

Okay Becky, stand up! You too, Autumn! Move to the music, side to side…that’s it!

Wait, don’t clap!

You didn’t hear me earlier? Just sway….and don’t do that Batman mask thing…

Why do y’all White people do that? It’s okay in the honky-tonk, I suppose, but not in church!

Anyway, just sway……there ya go!

“Swing down, sweet chariot, stop and let me riiiiide!

Swang down, sweet chariot, stop and let me riiiide!”

Music is an integral part of Black Church. Matter of fact, most of us go to Church for the music, and if the preaching is good, that’s just frosting on the cake.

Now, I got to tell you, there are a few dysfunctional folk that make up the choir, that’s just how it is. Let me explain…

You see, Satan, way back when he was called Lucifer, was the leader of the choir. Best gig in Heaven, he just had to do 3 sets a day, new outfit each set. Pretty little cherubim singing backup, all he had to do was show up and sing to the Big 3. Problem was, he just couldn’t stand having to stand up while They sat down.

(You know niggas, always want what they can’t have.)

See, if he joined the Big 3, it wouldn’t be the Big 3, it would be the Big 4, and that wouldn’t do, not a-tall. So, Luce did a little plotting in the background, got a few of the angels to hook up with him, try to do a drive-by on Jesus, but….well….you know how that was gonna go. Jesus holla @ his boy Michael the archangel, and that was a wrap. Michael and his boys put their foot in Luce’s azz, and he’s been catchin’ Hell ever since.

So, now, the choir is where you find the talented folk, but they all got issues.

Piano player….his name’s Percy.

Percy the Piano player. Now you know that boy got issues, don’t you?

He can play, now, make that piano jump! But, uh, he got…uh…how do I put this politely….he got man issues.

Yeah, you heard right.

Man issues.

He likes men.

White men.

We don’t say much about it, because the boy can play, but every now and then, he let it slip that his “friend” is a member of the Caucasian Persuasion, ‘cuz he say stuff like, “My friend Raaaa-ndy,” you know, he draw out the a’s on ‘Raaaa-ndy’ for about five seconds or so, make you want to put your foot in his azz, make him pronounce it right, “My friend Raaaa-ndy made the most de-lish crepes Suzette last night,” and you stand there just wishing that Suzette was a big-titty blonde instead of some flat old pancakes, you know what I mean? But you can’t say nothing about it, cuz you’re in church, and thinking about Suzette and her big titties aint right in church. Besides, you can forget about Percy giving up Randy, because Randy got something big, too.

His feet.

Randy wears a size 15 shoe.

And you know how that is, White boy with a big…foot…is hard to find.

Percy aint going nowhere, ‘cause Percy in love. Walk in church every Sunday, limping to the organ, if you know what I mean, and the harder he limp, the better he play…

Okay, White people, listen up! This is one of those lessons where you have to realize that you don’t understand nothing about what is going on here, and you need a Black person to interpret it for you…

Got it?

What you’re about to see is as dark and mysterious as any jungle you could ever imagine….

Without the heat, of course.

(Black folks can’t stand it when the a.c. is out, trust me. If you ever get in a situation where there are too many niggas around, find a way to cut off the a.c. Niggas leave, problem solved.)

I’m talking about Church.

Black Church.

Oh, don’t worry. You’re safe here. To be honest, we kinda like it when you show up.

Well, 2 or 3 of you, anyway.

5 or 6 of y’all, and we get kinda nervous, and we start mumbling schit, like “Did Reverend Kimble forget to pay the note again?”

But a couple of y’all is good, adds a bit of flavor to the mix, not to mention it gives us a new source of entertainment, other than Sister Krystelle getting’ happy with that too-short dress.

She really ought’a quit that.

Mother Brown’s blood pressure rises up every time Kryst gets to shakin’ in her pew.

“She know she know better than that! She just tryin’ to catch po’ Rev’s eye with that short dress! Humph! One mo’ inch higher, and she be needin’ lipstick!”

Mother’s right about that, though. I know that heifer’s cat got to be freezing! Maybe that’s why she be jumping, trying to warm her azz up.

Anyway, we be watching when y’all come in. We know y’all gonna sit together, like there’s safety in numbers.

Forget that.

Plenty enough of us to beat y’alls collective azzes, plus any cops that show up. And besides, we got our alibis all straight, trust me. We’d be sitting in the courthouse like The Color Purple:

“Yo Honor, suh, we wuz just sittin’ in chu’ch, just praisin’ de Lawd, bless His Holy Name (Hallylooooyah! Thank ya, Jesus!), we don’t know where them Whi’ folks came from!”

Yes, we saw you come in and sit down, with that possum-caught-in-the-headlights look on your face. We sas you, and we kinda sympathized with you, until….

Yes, there is an “until.”

Until you started to clap.

This brings me to Rule #1—Thou Shalt Not Clap.

You hear?

You may nod your head to the beat, and softly drum your index finger on the pew—but that’s it! You may even gently wave your prerequisite MLK funeral home cardboard fan (soon to be replaced by the Barack Obama model) if you want to, but that’s it!

(A little-known fact: Most Anglo-Saxons have a defective genome, patboone301, that renders them incapable of maintaining more than 3 seconds of syncopated rhythm. All that time shivering in the caves of Europe will do that to a people.)

We’re not saying don’t enjoy the music—jam all you want.

Just keep the jam to yourself.

Trust me, you’re already in the awkward position of being “The White Boy Who Came To Church,” you don’t want to add “And Clapped Off Beat, You Know How They Do” to your title.

Hey, you don’t have to listen if you don’t want to. I’ll be the first one pointing and laughing.

How they missed it, I have no idea. But, you know White people, unless we’re singing, dancing or otherwise acting the fool, they don’t pay any attention to us.

Why do you think they were so shocked when Obama won? Both times?

Remember, back in ’07, when Hillary was prancing around like she was Queen For A Day, smiling and grinning for the cameras like a chimp on crack? She just knew she had the nomination sewed up. Then here comes this big-eared junior Senator from Chicago, just one state away from Dan Quayle…

By the way, where is that sumbit, anyway? Probably in a library somewhere, looking up just who in the hell was John Kennedy!

Ha!

But, as is the case so often in these pages, I digress. What was I talking about, anyway, Autumn?

Huh?

That’s right, Standard Operating Procedure. Just checking to see if you’re paying attention. White girls have trouble focusing, y’know. And, BTW, why is it that all the romance novels have pictures of White guys on the cover? Y’all know doggone good and well when you’re sitting at home, reading that paperback, looking all misty-eyed, you got a brother on your mind.

Love’s Tender Fury, yeah right.

Brother’s Outta Kool-Aid, Get to Steppin’ is more like it.

Speaking of Kool-Aid, a couple of y’all flunked last week’s pop quiz. Leaving one inch of sugar at the bottom of the pitcher will get you an automatic “F”.

You’re supposed to leave two inches! And it’s supposed to be sweet! What if you want to make a cold cup with it later?

Boy, I tell you, the more I teach you, the dumber you get!

Where was I?

Standard Operating Procedure.

We call it “sop” for short.

One of the beautiful things about BlackSpeak is that we shorten everything.

I don’t understand how in the world White people didn’t know about sop. We are always asking for and aware of any updates and changes to Standing Operating Procedure.

Let me explain: When two White people greet each other, they say, “How do you do?”

Not us.

When two Black people greet each other, the first thing we want to know is “Has there been any major changes in Standing Operating Procedure?’ But, that’s way too many syllables, so we just say, “Whassop?”

And, the usual response is, “Nothin’”, or any of the (at last count) 1,345 derivatives, such as, “Aint nothin’, man”, or, “You got it, Bro.,” or, one of the Old School responses, “Everythang is everythang,” all of which simply means, “Standard Operating Procedure is unchanged as of this moment, but be alert.”

You see, White people, Standard Operating Procedures are taught to Black children at an early age. While you were teaching your kids which fork to use, and how to separate the paper from the plastic, we were teaching them what was “sop”. For example, after church @ Sunday dinner, we’d say: “That Reverend Kimble, he think he slick! Nigga done raised the main offering, now he trying to raise one ‘for the po’ chirren in Haiti.’ Humph! Po’ chirren in Haiti, my foot! He done started foolin’ around wit’ Sister Brown’s gal, you know, the one with the watermelon azz! She be swishin’ ’round chu’ch in that too-tight usher uniform with the print of her drawers showin’, azz so big, she be swattin’ flies with it! Then, then, she always got to hand him some note, or a fan, or somethin’, bendin’ that big azz over right in the deacons’ face! Deacon Bellard, po’ thing, his wife died last year, he be watchin’ her, head be bobbin’ like a bulldog on a dashboard, then he caint stand up straight to pray! Well, anyway, Rev. just bought hisself a new car, and somebody gotta pay the note, but I be damn if it’s us! Chirren, when they pass that basket the second time, keep yo’ money in yo’ pocket, y’ hear? Haiti chirren that hungry, they can come over here to eat!”

Like I said, we teach our children “whassop.”

Oh, that reminds me, class. We’re taking a field trip one day next week. If you’re going to learn anything about Black Culture, I have to take you to Black Church. So, next class period, ladies, be sure to wear your floppy hat, and men, two-toned shoes are a must! No, you cannot wear blue jeans! You goin’ to Church!